In Other Words
by carpenoctem22
Summary: Fancy parties with the obscenely rich and her hovering parents are a part of her life Pacifica's come to expect by now. Fancy parties with her now 6-foot-tall boyfriend in a tux? Not so much. Dancing would be so much easier if she didn't have to look up at him now.


**Here's some fluff in the midst of the pain that is this TV show right now. This is unbelievably sappy and fluffy, so be warned.**

* * *

It's not often that you hear the sounds of Frank Sinatra coming from the Mystery Shack, and by not often, Stan Pines means never. Not that he has anything against the man, he's got some fairly good vocals – it's just not up his alley, to say. He'd rather listen to the 50's hits playlist Mabel made him two summers ago, or silence. Silence would be a nice thing to have around here, for once.

Alas for Stan, it is not to be. Frank Sinatra's jazz-accompanied tones blare through the Shack, probably sending Ford into convulsions in his lab (Stan gets a kick out of imagining that one).

Honestly, though, it wouldn't be so bad if they weren't trying to sing _along_.

" _Flyyyyyy me to the moon, let me sing among the stars-"_

Stan sighs, burying his head deeper in the newspaper. At least the Northwest girl has decent vocals. His nephew, on the other hand…

" _In other words, ho-old my hand-"_

Stan groans. "Can you kids keep it down in there? For the sale of all those cursed with hearing?"

"No can do, Grunkle Stan!" Mabel says, sticking her head in the living room. "We've gotta get Dipper dancing like a ballroom professional by tomorrow, or Paz is gonna die of embarrassment again!"

As if on cue, Pacifica gives a yelp of pain. "Dipper, watch my toes!"

"Sorry, I'm sorry! This is impossible." Dipper's groan echoes from the kitchen, and Stan finally gives up, grabbing his coffee and rising from his armchair to join Mabel where she's watching.

They look better than they did two housr ago, at least, Stan thinks. They've moved on from the waltz, and Pacifica is currently trying to teach Dipper the finer points of the fox trot. To be fair, it's an effort that is somewhat hampered by the recent addition of Dipper's height.

"Okay, seriously, I _will_ retaliate with heels if you do that again-"

"I'm _sorry_ , I'm still getting used to having about two extra feet of legs!"

"Suck it up, bro-bro!" Mabel calls. Stan's guessing she's still somewhat bitter over losing her throne as tallest twin. "You're the one that wanted to get taller!"

"Yeah, I guess I just always thought coordination would come along with it," Dipper mutters, dejectedly. "At this rate you may as well just leave me at the gates."

"Excuse me? Is that defeat I hear?" Pacifica says. "You are not cutting out on this, Dipper Pines. You're going to show my father that you're a perfectly upstanding, respectable gentleman and impress every single one of his friends while I rub it in his face with a cheese grater."

Dipper gives a surprised snort. "Is the cheese grater a guarantee?"

"Yes," Pacifica says, tossing her hair as she drags him back to the music. "And you are not leaving me stuck in the arms of some handsy, stuck-up rich boy while I listen to him critique the quality of mahogany in our house."

Dipper frowns. "Wait, has that happened before?"

"Yes, but don't worry about it," Pacifica says. "I spilled a tray of champagne glasses on him. I think he got the point."

"Well, if he needs another reminder, I'd be more than happy-"

"Dipper!" Pacifica says, in fond exasperation. "Focus! Dancing! You and me, tomorrow night! In front of lots of very, very rich and powerful people!"

"Agh, gah, okay!" Dipper yelps, looking back down at their feet. "What are we dancing, again?"

Stan laughs at Pacifica's despairing groan. Mabel elbows him, but she's grinning too, flicking gummy koalas into her mouth as she occasionally yells phrases of encouragement at the couple. Stan leans back against the table that's been pushed against the wall, watching the pair. They really aren't that bad, when Dipper's actually concentrating, he thinks, a small smile playing on his lips. He'll never admit it to the kid – no, he gets too much fun making him turn fire-engine red and sputter – but the two make a good couple, the Northwest girl's frosty exterior melting as she laughs at Dipper, who, in turn, has forgotten the newfound awkwardness in his limbs as he pulls her around, grinning.

"I've always wanted to be a maid of honor," Mabel remarks, in a hushed tone. Stan chokes on his coffee.

"I wouldn't jump that far ahead, sweetie," he says, setting his coffee down to pound his chest. Mabel raises a devious eyebrow at him.

"No offense, Grunkle Stan, but you aren't a love expert," she says, staring back at the couple.

"Oh, and you are?"

Mabel nods. "A hundred percent success rate! Well, mostly. When it matters."

"Well, it's your brother," he says. The thought of _Dipper_ and _marriage_ in the same sentence is still making him dizzy. "But give 'em time, okay? They're only seventeen."

"Mm, time, schmime," Mabel says. "You'll dance with me at their wedding, right?"

Stan sighs, giving up. "Anything for you, sweetheart." Mabel gives him a sun-bright smile before returning her attention to her brother and her best friend.

Pacifica is still dragging Dipper in a stepping circle, her sighs of exasperation growing more dramatic with each step.

"Okay, now go right – no, don't jump, just – just slide to the right."

"Slide to the left. Take it back now y'all."

"Dipper, no."

"Cha cha real slow."

"I'm going to _kill_ you." Pacifica sounds like she's trying to suppress laughter and failing, her face caught in a losing battle as she suppresses a grin. "Here, just twirl me out and dip me, then we can be done with this song."

Dipper does so with gusto, swinging Pacifica out wildly as her hair flies, spinning them both towards the other side of the kitchen, and-

Stan winces. "Watch out for the-"

A sudden crash followed by clattering and two sets of yelps echoes through the shack.

"Stove," Stan sighs. He drags a hand over his face. "Mabel, can you do something about those two before they wreck the house?"

"Sure," she says, grinning. She springs forward, pouncing into Dipper and Pacifica's dance.

"Make room, people! Lemme show you how you really dance!"

Stan watches the three with an air of hopelessness. "On second thought, maybe I'll join poindexter in the basement," he mutters.

* * *

Pacifica Northwest has a good feeling about tonight. Really.

Okay, fine, so she's blatantly lying to herself, but at least she's _trying_ to be positive. Mabel would be proud, if she'd stop spinning around in her new dress long enough to see straight. Pacifica sighs, playing absently with the lacy, sleeveless border of her own dress, glancing around the dressing room as if it will give her a way out of this.

It's not that she doesn't want to go to a dance with Dipper and Mabel. Quite the opposite, actually. She likes dancing with Dipper – he's gotten much better than the disastrous attempts they first made at another one of these balls a few years ago.

But she likes dancing with him on cracked, linoleum floors in a tiny kitchen, blaring their music as loud as they want and laughing freely, without fear of her parents hovering above them, the only onlookers Stan and Mabel (and occasionally Ford, when he comes up to yell at them). But stiff, formal dancing in the middle of a bunch of rich, stuck-up people with the same exact snotty laugh? She'll pass.

Pacifica checks her lipstick nervously. This particular evening is already shaping up to be one long stress session, her parents probably preparing to hover like disapproving vultures, most of the most powerful people in the northwest mingling about, and Dipper in a tux.

That last part is paradoxically the only reason this evening could turn out decent, other than Mabel spiking the punch with Mabel juice. On one hand, Dipper in a _tux_. On the other hand, _Dipper_ in a tux.

She doesn't need any more reason to make her nervous tonight. Stupid Dipper and his six feet of glory, she thinks darkly.

A sharp knock on the door interrupts her thoughts. "Are you guys ready in there? I think I'm about to get murdered by a butler on your dad's behalf, Pacifica."

"Oh, don't be silly, bro-bro," Mabel says, swinging open the door. "You're fine! Besides, look at this awesome dress! It's got like, five gallons of glitter on it."

"Technically, they're very tiny rhinestones, but sure. Glitter," Pacifica says, striding up to Dipper.

"It's beautiful, Mabel," Dipper says, fidgeting with his bowtie. He's learned to tie it himself by now, and Pacifica's almost sad. "Think I'll pass the Northwest judgement? Your friend helped me out on it, but since I apparently have zero taste…"

Pacifica stares at him – or up at him, since she has to, now. Her eyes rake over the sharp black suit he's got on, and she reminds herself to thank her butler for that one.

"You'll pass," she says. "It looks fine."

"That's not the only thing looking fine, aha, am I right?" Mabel says, leaning in with a practically sinful look.

Pacifica flushes as Dipper looks between the two in confusion. "Are you two ready, or…"

"Yes, yes, we're fine!" Pacifica huffs, grabbing the two by the arm and hauling them toward the ballroom doors. "We're already late, let's go, okay? Straighten your ties, or whatever, everyone's probably going to be looking at us."

"And can you try and do something with your hair, Dipper?" Mabel says, flicking an unruly strand of her brother's hair. "It looks like a haystack."

"I know, I know," Dipper says, brushing at his hair in agitation. "Grunkle Stan was right, I should've got it cut."

Pacifica frowns. She doesn't see anything wrong with Dipper's hair – the careful disarray suits him, she thinks. It's a little on the longer side, of course, but she likes it long. It's a darker shade of brown, not a boring one or anything – and it does pretty things under the light. Thick and curly and perfect for running your hands through, and soft – oh yeah, his hair is really, really soft-

"Pacifica?"

She jolts. Dipper is staring at her anxiously. "They'll let me in if I still look like a hobo, right?"

Pacifica rolls her eyes. "Of course they will, stupid," she says, brushing her own fingers through his hair. "And it looks fine. I like it."

A small smile spreads across Dipper's face. "Well, I guess that's all that matters."

Pacifica smiles back. Mabel makes a noise of disgust.

"I'm going to puke."

* * *

To her relief, the first half of the evening passes uneventfully. Dipper and Mabel are barely spared a second glance by the other guests, and even though her father's eyes linger in disapproval on Dipper, he says nothing.

To her distinct emotion that's _not_ relief, no one else seems to disapprove of Dipper. Quite the opposite, in fact, for a certain crowd.

She sneaks another sip of champagne, watching as Dipper dances with the Byerly girl. She's practically got her arms draped over him, like a – like a leech, or something. A simpering, vapid leech. It's not that Pacifica's jealous in any way, of course. It's just that the girl's gripping his arm a little too tight, and leaning a little _too_ close-

She downs another sip of champagne, hardly even trying to be secretive now. She's not jealous. They're beyond that.

But if the Byerly girl would just lean back a bit and _get that look off her face_.

It's only fair, she supposes. Dipper's spent the last few years wearily fending off stuck-up rich boys interested in her, deflecting comments attacking everything from his heritage to his appearance. She's done what she could to throttle those, of course, but she can't catch everything – not with her parents always two steps behind her. A sharp comment she could get away with, maybe, but she didn't think physical assault via ripping hair out would slip past their radar. At any rate, Dipper had put up with that for years, only once admitting that yes, maybe he did get jealous, but it was unfounded and stupid. So the least she can do, really, is put up with this.

She bites back a vindictive snort as Dipper steps on the girl's toes, leaving her wincing. She takes a moment to tap her own close-toed heels on the floor in satisfaction.

The final chords of the song fade, and Dipper pulls awkwardly back from the girl, head whipping back and forth as he scans the room for someone he knows. Or looks for an escape – knowing Dipper, its' probably the latter.

Normally, she'd leave him to flounder for a minute, just to mess with him – but she can see another millionaire's daughter eyeing him like a piece of meat, the way some of their people do when they're sizing up another prospect to buy. She stands abruptly, marching through the crowds of people like an empress, a sour taste in her mouth.

"Excuse me," she says, sliding in front of the girl, her voice dripping with false civility. "I believe my _boyfriend_ promised me this one."

The girl's brow creases, her lip curling as she nods in her own forced politeness. Pacifica gives her a grin that feels an awful lot like a shark's as she leaves. Oh well. She's not in the mood, tonight.

Dipper gives her a look of pure relief as she turns to him. "Thanks," he says. "I'm pretty sure I was about to get sued for crappy dancing and being uncultured there."

"Not exactly," Pacifica mutters, but she relaxes as they fall into the new dance, Dipper's arms tightening around her. She pauses a second, finding the beat of the music. "This is a waltz, by the way."

"Thanks" Dipper mutters, glancing down at their feet before falling into the dance. "Huh," he says, looking up. "This isn't so bad."

"Well, you had a good teacher," Pacifica sniffs.

"That I did," Dipper says, nodding at her. "I should go back to the girl whose toes I stepped on six times and tell her that it was Pacifica Northwest, esteemed heiress, that taught me such elegance-"

"Oh, shut _up_ ," Pacifica says, briefly releasing his hand to slap his shoulder. "I'm sure those girls enjoyed themselves plenty," she says, with another prickle of annoyance.

"Yeah, _that's_ funny. Okay, but really, though," Dipper says, frowning. "Did you make me a charity case or something tonight? Tell everyone I had a terminal illness?"

"Excuse me?"

"I actually had people ask me to dance tonight," Dipper continues, looking bemused. "And like, no one looked upset about it. How'd you get them to do that? 'Cause don't get me wrong, I appreciate it, but it was really weird-"

"Oh my god," Pacifica says, staring at him. "You _are_ hopelessly oblivious."

"What? No I'm not," Dipper says, mildly offended. "Just because I can't figure out what you told them-"

"Dipper," Pacifica sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Dipper, you're hot."

It's Dipper's turn to stare at her. "Huh?"

"You. Got. Hot." Pacifica repeats. She doesn't even blush this time – her eyes are too busy trying to roll out of her head."

"Um, no, I'm not," Dipper laughs, staring at her in confusion. "You're definitely the attractive one in this relationship."

"I never said I was _unattractive_ ," she huffs. This is ridiculous. "I'm saying that you're… you got attractive…er, like, good attractive-"

"I got stronger," Dipper frowns. Pacifica tries very hard not to think about the wood-chopping incident yesterday. "But I didn't think anything else got better?"

"Newsflash, stupid, you got hotter," Pacifica says. Dipper's mouth opens and closes again, brow wrinkled in confusion. It's an unfairly cute expression. His expression grows vacant, digesting this.

"Huh," Dipper finally says. His expression turns sly. "Wait, so _you_ think I'm hot?"

"Wha – well duh, but that's – that's not the point," Pacifica stutters, unsure of why her cheeks are heating. Dipper grins widely.

"You _do_ think I'm hot," he says, leaning in, eyebrows raised suggestively.

"Okay, seriously?" she says, regaining her composure. "Dipper, we're dating."

"Yeah, but still," he says, smiling like a dork. "You think I'm hot."

"Like I said, you kinda are," she mutters, rather through with this conversation.

"How long have you thought I'm hot, exactly-"

"Oh for heaven's sake – forget it, focus on dancing again. My father's glaring at us," Pacifica says, wishing she hadn't noticed.

"Oh, c'mon," Dipper says, carefully turning them so that Pacifica's now between him and her father. "Hey, at least he doesn't look like he's being drawn and quartered this time."

"No, just like he's swallowed a lemon," Pacifica mutters. Stupid parents, hovering like prissy, scandalized bats all the time.

"Hey," Dipper says, pulling her back to face him. "Just ignore him, okay? Who cares what he thinks."

"Um, pretty much everyone in the room who knows anything?"

"Well screw them, okay?" Dipper says. "You're better than every single one of them, anyways. We're gonna dance like professionals and have a great time ignoring your dad, okay?"

Pacifica rolls her eyes, but she can feel her cheeks reddening again. "Fine," she says. "Lead on, then, dork."

Dipper grins. And to his everlasting credit, the next few steps are flawless, their dance smooth and easy as they fall in with the other dancers on the floor. Dipper's arms are light but sure against her back, and Pacifica's dress swishes around her ankles as they step to the jazzy tones. She feels herself relax, leaning into Dipper as thoughts of her father and mother drift away.

Their dance takes them to the edge of the crowd, and the singer's voice heightens, the tempo of the music quickening. Dipper flashes her a quick grin before spinning her around, a tiny, delighted shriek escaping her as the colors around her blur. They step faster, and Pacifica gives a gasping burst of laughter as Dipper spins her away, whirling the two of them around-

-and straight into a server.

There's a mingled mix of shrieks as Dipper smacks into him, pulling Pacifica down with him as the server and his plate go toppling. She catches a quick glance of the ill-fated champagne glasses flying in the air, the golden liquid sparkling just before it splashes over them in a very expensive rain.

The tinkling shatter of glass on the floor sounds like a gunshot.

The musicians, bless them, keep playing, but the dancers around them have frozen to stare at them with scandalized looks of thinly-veiled shock. Dipper's hands are at her back in an instant, helping to her feet as he apologizes profusely to the server, dropping back down to sweep up the glass. Pacifica has eyes only for the head of the ballroom, though, wiping champagne from her cheek as she slowly, slowly finds her father's face.

He's staring at them with a mix of embarrassment and horror, and it looks as if the glass in _his_ hand is about to go flying. Pacifica swallows.

"Dipper?" she says, faintly, tapping him of the shoulder. Dipper, who's still helping the server, glances at her, his face twisted in frightened guilt. "Leave it."

"Pacifica, I'm so, so, sorr-"

"No, don't," she says, grabbing his hand as she backs away, slowly. "How far is the car?"

Dipper's glanced to the front of the room by now, rapidly paling. "Close enough."

"Run on three?"

"Run _now."_

They turn on heel, running from the staring crowds of rich people and the heady glares of Pacifica's parents. Dipper grabs Mabel's elbow on the way, pulling her along as they make for the door.

"Guys," Mabel gasps, between bursts of laughter as she runs. "That was – that was – Paz, you should've _seen_ the look on your dad's face-"

Despite her overall horror at the situation, Pacifica remembers the comical, frozen look on her father's face. She gives a sharp burst of her own laughter.

"Thanks for the food, we'll be here all summer!" Mabel yells at the doorman as they leave, leaving drops of champagne in their wake.

* * *

"A waste of a perfectly good suit, if you ask me," Stan says, frowning at Dipper's champagne-soaked jacket. "And you didn't even bring any of the drink home."

"Hey, we're the ones who are suffering, here," Dipper mutters, pulling a dark blue t-shirt on. He's already changed from the dark dress pants into a pair of basketball shorts, and seems far more comfortable for the fact.

"Well, now I know how the boy I dumped the champagne tray on feels," Pacifica sighs. She's changed from her dress clothes as well, matching Mabel in an oversized sweater and a pair of borrowed leggings. Her hair is swept into a messy bun, and she can still catch the occasional whiff of champagne from it.

"I think it was a great way to end it," Mabel says, setting a cup of hot chocolate next to her. "We made a pretty awesome exit, if you ask me. And besides, now you get to spend the night!"

"You couldn't _pay_ me to go home," Pacifica shivers. As the years have passed, her parents have gotten better, to be fair. That doesn't mean she wants to sit through a three-hour lecture about her life choices, though.

"Well, you scandalized a bunch of rich people and got out of some fancy shindig early," Stan says. "Sounds like a pretty good night to me."

"Yeah, except I was an idiot and embarrassed us for life," Dipper says, rubbing his temples. "And I ruined the suit. And your dress."

Pacifica waves him off. "Please, don't even worry about them," she says. "There's plenty more where they came from."

"Yeah, and I've got a real good trick for the tux," Stan says. "You good with reselling it?"

"Well, I think overall it was a pretty good night, so let it go," Mabel remarks over Stan, handing Dipper another cup of hot chocolate. "Besides, it's still early enough to marathon Ducktective!"

"Sounds like a plan to me," Stan says, following her to the living room. Dipper glances at Pacifica, and she shrugs.

"Five hours of mindless TV sound great at this point," she says. Dipper shakes his head in agreement, helping her down from the counter.

"I really am sorry," he says, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck.

"Dipper," Pacifica says, grabbing the back of his head and forcing him to look down at her. "It's fine, okay? I had a great time. Don't worry about it."

He raises an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," she says, kissing him gently on the cheek. "Now forget about it."

Dipper's expression relaxes, and he wraps an arm around her as they make their way into the living room. They join Mabel on the sofa, watching Stan as he fiddles with the remote.

"Alright," he says, switching the TV on. "Let's watch some real cinema here. I've had it with that sappy jazz music you've been forcing us to listen to the past week."

Dipper grins at his uncle. "You mean like, _fly me to the moon-"_

" _Let me sing among the stars,_ " Pacifica chimes in. Mabel follows them up.

" _Let me see what spring in life on Jupit-er and Marssss_ -"

Stan groans, looking like he's considering chucking the remote at them. "You're all disowned."

The rest of their song it cut off as the intro to Ductective begins, prompting Mabel to loudly shush all of them. Pacifica hears a distinct sigh of relief from Stan as she leans against Dipper's chest, tucking her legs up on the sofa. Dipper's hair card through her hair gently, and her eyes flutter, curling closer to him.

"Your hair smells like champagne," Dipper mutters into her hair. Pacifica laughs, yawning.

"Wonder how _that_ happened."


End file.
